


Dearly Beheaded

by sailorbowie



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Accidental Dismemberment, Aftermath of Torture, Blood and Gore, Body Horror, Cults, I Don't Even Know, It's For a Case, M/M, Necromancy, Slow Burn, Wizard Sherlock, i swear it'll be cute
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-09-01
Updated: 2018-09-20
Packaged: 2019-07-05 05:29:21
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 3
Words: 3,410
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15857169
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sailorbowie/pseuds/sailorbowie
Summary: John’s past few months have been filled with hot sand, bullets, and countless lives lost. When a planned raid on an enemy base goes awry, he is the only one left. About to be sacrificed by the cultish group, help arrives just as the blade falls. Days pass and John wakes up, back again in London. The only thing off is the various stitches around his neck and various places on his body. The answers lie on a note leading to his savior.





	1. Not That Head-strong

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks to SRjackson for giving this a little beta-ing! Send some kudos their way! Also, I am not legally responsible for  
> negative or positive reactions based on head puns.

John shielded his eyes with his hand as the jeep rolled over the dunes. He had been looking forward to this mission as much as the rest of them. John glanced around at the tired and worn out soldiers around him in the back. Their eyes were sunken and their skin tanned by the sun and blazing heat of Afghanistan.

 

After countless miles, the jeep finally stopped. He motioned for the men to follow him around to the base. Their orders were to capture it and take any prisoners if possible. John knew it would be hard, though, as they were dealing with a hostile group.

 

No sooner had they tried their stealthy approach, they were ambushed by surprise. Mixed shouts and gunshots rang through the air as John tried keeping everyone together.

 

Just then, he felt a click nearby. It could only mean one thing.

 

“MINE! SCATTER!” he yelled. John dropped to the ground and covered his ears as the blow came. His ears rang from the blast, but he got up as soon as he got his gun.

 

The dust settled, and it seemed that the enemy was gone. John squinted through the cloud of smoke. 

 

_ “Where did those bastards go?”  _ That thought was his last as something blunt struck his head.

 

 

* * *

 

 

The room he was in was dark, save for some dripping candles around the room. His uniform was gone, and John’s arms and legs were restrained by a rough rope. It grazed and cut deeper each time he moved. He grunted as he struggled to get free. 

 

An ominous humming came from all around him as he watched hooded beings come forward carrying the bare bodies of each of his comrades. John was too horrified to even speak as they were placed in a ceremonial circle in front of him. Blood flowed into the ground, turning the stone floor red.

 

John watched as a red hooded man came to him and pressed his fingers to his head. The man murmured unknown words and John’s eyes slowly shut as he fell unconscious once more.

 

 

* * *

 

On a stone altar, he finally uttered a scream. John’s arms were severed from his sides on separate slabs in parts, as well as his legs. He was unable to move, only whimper in pain. The hooded figure approached him again now, this time with a sword engraved with gold symbols. The darkness clouded his vision, and moments of his life seemed to flash before him as the blade was raised...and then swiftly brought it down on his neck.

 

John gasped once as he felt his head roll to the side. He watched in what was his last moments the figures beginning to chant. Just as John shut his eyes, he heard something get knocked over, and a series of voices crying out.

 

The silence felt the loudest of all as a new set of footsteps hurried to his side, holding his cheek.

 

“Please, please, please…breathe for me.”

 

John exhaled a single breath as he began to descend into rest.

 

 

* * *

 

 

In his dreams, he heard new voices. The one of concern from before, another of doubt and dismissal.  They both agreed though, they needed to save John Watson. 

He could almost smell the various herbs and flowers. John had visions of light binding him, enveloping him in a golden glow. 

 

“He has the blessing of sunlight, brother mine. You were wise to save him.” the second voice said admirably.

 

“I did what I had to do, Mycroft. Empathy had no part in it.” the first replied coldly.

 

“We both know that’s not true. Caring is not always an advantage….”

 

The voices faded out into silence. John felt darkness recede for God knows how long. And then he finally woke up.

 

John wheezed as he sat up in bed. He clutched his throat as he took rapid breaths. It was then that John felt it. The seam. His fingers followed the stitches around his neck.

 

He got up and immediately checked his arms, feeling seams here and there. John guessed they also were present on his legs as well. A tall mirror next to him confirmed his thoughts.

 

The string was golden, and it dotted around the area just below his throat. It was surprisingly subtle and almost looked like a chain.

 

John noticed he was in a rather nondescript looking flat. A desk sat across from the bed with a laptop and note. He picked it up to read it.

 

_ Your limbs are detachable, but you are not dead, _

_ You’ll still function normally, just try your head. _

_ Then seek an old friend in the park of green, _

_ Tell him of war, but not what you’ve seen. _

_ Cold now is London, long gone is the heat, _

_ Find the white room, and soon we shall meet. _

 

The messy but fine writing was nothing compared to John’s face when he read it. The cryptic writing was reminiscent of a poem.

 

_ “What kind of Shakespearean bullshit is this?”  _ John questioned himself. The style was coded in prose, no doubt. Out of curiosity though, he put the note down and held the sides of his head, slowly pulling.

 

It came off just like a magnet. John’s eyes widened as he turned his head down to his neck. It wasn’t gushing blood like a red fountain in the movies. John then tried speaking headless.

 

“What the actual _fuck_?”

 

He set his head back down, and it was drawn back into place by an unseen force. John then popped off his hand, and he let it crawl across the desk like the hand from the Addams Family. He snapped with it twice and smirked.

 

John reattached it so and got his jacket. The park of green obviously seemed to be Hyde Park a couple of blocks away.  _ ‘An old friend?’ _ John sighed trying to think of literally anyone from uni that didn’t get a life.

 

Instead of worrying, he just grabbed the keys on the desk and left for what was going to be a very interesting day.


	2. Heading...Somewhere

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Fate plays a role and John finds the one he's been searching for.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Big thanks to @SRjackson and a friend of mine for beta-ing once again! This is gonna be pretty uh, pretty uh, great.

John was surprised by how no passerby paid him any mind as he walked through the streets. It seemed that either no one noticed, or no one really cared. As he finally entered the lush haven of grass and pigeons, John looked around. There were old ladies feeding the birds, excited dogs trotting alongside their owners and joggers rushing by.

 

He settled down on a bench and waited. Who was he even waiting for, anyway? John gazed beyond the bushes and trees into space. He blinked, and for a moment he saw a table covered in papers and petri dishes, before going back to reality.

 

“John!”

 

He turned to his left, as a rather plump man called out to him.

 

“John Watson...it’s me, Mike Stamford!” he called out again. John stood up and smiled as he slowly recognized him.

 

“Mike, yeah, I remember. We went to school together, didn’t we? You’ve changed a lot.” John mentioned. Mike shook his hand so firmly, he was personally afraid it might have come off, but it was stuck like glue.

 

“Yeah, well, I got fat. I’m actually at Bart’s again, actually. I’m a professor now!” he replied. The two sat down, and sighed. Mike was friendly enough to break the silence.

 

“So you’re back from your tour in Afghanistan already? What happened?”

 

“I uhh, I got injured. Mission....went wrong.” John explained subtly. He barely understood half of it himself. Mike nodded solemnly.

 

“You recovering alright? The pension covering everything?”

 

“I’m doing better, I guess. Ended up in some flat and I haven’t got a clue of what else to do. It seems bloody expensive to live alone.” This lit up Mike’s face.

 

“Hey, you know, maybe you could try a flatmate! In fact, someone I know was just telling me today that he was looking for one. Works at Bart’s in the lab now and then. I could introduce you to him.” he suggested. The hospital was only a short walk away, so it didn’t hurt.

 

_ “Could this be it?” _ John thought to himself. It didn’t hurt to try, at least. He paused before he replied.

 

“Fate’s a funny thing I suppose...shall we go?”

 

* * *

 

The halls were brightly lit as they passed each room. ‘Blood Testing’, ‘Chemical Analysis’, ‘Post-mortem X-ray Room’... ’Head Pathologist’s Office?!

 

“Mike, I don’t really remember this wing too well...” John said somewhat confused.

 

“The Criminal Investigation Wing was added some years ago, actually. It’s mostly reserved for Scotland Yard, usually, but well... _ he _ is a special case.” Mike explained at a near whisper as they came to the last room, ‘Lab no. 3’. John raised an eyebrow as he opened the door.

 

Inside was a place cluttered with science. The table had notes and folders marked with red ‘EVIDENCE’ stamps. The counter in the middle also had sets of test tubes and beakers...and petri dishes. Sitting at the other end was a dark-curled man gazing into a microscope. He looked up expectantly, his crystal-like eyes inspecting them both.

 

“Mike. You’ve brought someone.”

 

His baritone voice spoke calmly, and yet filled the room all at once. John instantly recognized it, and his eyes widened. He heard a phone go off.

 

“Oh sorry, it’s the office! I have to go. You two can work it out! See ya!” Mike said, closing the door behind them as he hurried off. John came closer, looking at the notes and plastic petri dishes on the table. He must have had a vision of the same thing before…

 

“I, uh… got your note,” John started, pacing around the room. “My name’s-”

 

“Captain John H. Watson of Her Majesty’s Fifth Northumberland Fusiliers, stationed 3 years ago for what was to be a 5 year tour in Afghanistan. You’ve gotten somewhat accustomed to civilian life again but your occasionally distant gaze and formal stance shows otherwise. While I did my best to heal you, there were some things out of my control.” the man finished for him. There was an unspoken guilt in his voice.

 

If John’s jaw was sewn on, it still wouldn’t have stopped it from dropping.

 

“Wait, wait, so...how did you know all of that? I mean, besides the fact you… you? You made me into some kind of Frankenstein with magic, somehow.” John figured out. The tall one smirked, and perched his chin above his closed hands.

 

“I used a combination of herbal substances and naturalistic necromancy to bring you back to ‘life’. If anything, I made you into Frankenstein’s creation. And, I’m offering you an opportunity...”

 

“If this opportunity involves blood sacrifices and stuff, I’m really not all that interested. Mike said you were a special case here. Who are you really?”

 

“My name is Sherlock Holmes. Consulting sorcerer and detective. I help put the pieces together when Scotland Yard is lost, without the use of blood sacrifices. I know what happened back there was...literally scarring. But whenever you are able to, I feel you would be good help on a case, John.” he offered, looking back at him with earnest.

 

“I’m just a ragdoll from the war. What could I do?” he joked to Sherlock.

 

“As far as what I know, a lot. You’re uneasy now, but I know there’s something in you that craves the danger. The thrill of the chase, the blood pumping in your veins...do you want to feel it, John Watson?”

 

He felt something other than magic rush through him. A rush of adventure that fueled his immediately reply,

 

“Oh god yes…”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ;^))))))


	3. A Head Start

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John comes across his first dead body. Well, away from war.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Cheers and kudos to @SRjackson! I hope you find this to be a much more intriguing take on ASIP....

“Nice place,” John commented.

 

Sherlock lead him to his flat at Baker Street, which he had offered to share. The gold ‘221’ numbers gleamed elegantly on the black door. A double rap with the knocker soon brought an older woman dressed in plums and purples to the door.

 

“Oh welcome home, Sherlock!” she cried, pulling him into a hug. Holmes awkwardly accepted it, giving her a pat on the back before they parted.

 

“John, this is my landlady, Mrs. Hudson.” he introduced.

 

“It’s very good to meet you, John! Sherlock’s a dear, really, he doesn’t show it too much. He helped me out of a pickle some years before...” she explained.

 

“As in, assisting your ex-husband in a trial after he was possessed before going on a murderous rampage on people that he’s had a minor disliking for?” Holmes mentioned, eyebrow arching.

 

“You...cleared his name?” John asked. Sherlock only chuckled darkly.

 

“Oh no, I insured his death sentence. He knew what he was doing when he signed the contract.”

 

“Demons are a nasty thing to deal with anyway. Do come in, you two!” Mrs. Hudson said, inviting them inside. John was relieved that she was somewhat familiar with any of this magic stuff that seemed to be a thing.

 

The flat seemed old, judging by the worn floral wallpaper that peeled on his way up the stairs. Sherlock’s flat had a more monotone appearance, with black fleur de lis's adorning the walls. The living room was cozy enough, with two chairs and a fireplace. John looked at the skull, almost surprised.

 

_“That is not the craziest thing I’ve seen...so far.”_ he thought to himself as he walked around. Papers and old case files were strewn about the table. John eyed an old cherry-wood box on the bookshelf that gave off an odd aura.

 

“Say, that was a cool signal before. The Petri dishes and stuff.” He mentioned to Sherlock. He only looked back confusedly.

“The what?”

 

“I got a vision right before I saw Mike again....wait, that wasn’t you?”

 

“It wasn’t. Seems you’ve got something in you.” Holmes dismissed, though he secretly wondered. He fixed things up a little and picked up the latest newspaper while Mrs. Hudson came back up with a tray of tea.

“I do hope you make yourself at home. There’s another bedroom if you need it, you know…” she offered, giving John a wink. He put on a false smile.

 

“Yes, this is a lovely place, Mrs. Hudson. But what are you implying exactly?”

 

“Well, it’s a new age, John, I don’t judge. My friend Ms. Turner’s got married ones upstairs.” she insisted, pouring a cup of tea.

 

“W-wait, no, but I’m not, we’re not-” he managed. Mrs. Hudson though was already on her way downstairs. John sighed and decided to see what he was reading.

 

“Serial suicides? That’s quite mad. And there’s been three already?”

 

Sherlock handed the paper to him as he went to the window. Sirens once in the distance grew louder until they stopped outside of 221B Baker Street.

 

“There’s been a fourth,” Holmes concluded. John’s eyebrow furrowed as he slowly heard footsteps race up the stairs. A silver-haired officer came in, panting.

“Sherlock, we need you to take a look at this. There’s been another suicide.”

 

“How severe?”

 

“It’s a four. But...”

 

“But?” He finally turned around.

 

“They left behind a note this time...” the man finished.

 

Sherlock nodded. “Right, George, I’ll take a look. John, you....you would be great help.” Holmes pointed at him while the other looked offended.

 

“It’s _Greg!_ ” The inspector complained. Sherlock still stared at John and brushed him away indifferently.

 

“Yes, fine, I’ll meet you there.”

 

Greg rolled his eyes and headed downstairs. The door shut and John looked down, then cleared his throat.

 

He began to giggle. Sherlock snorted and joined in on the laughter.

 

“How the hell do you not know the D.I.’s name?!” John asked between giggles. Sherlock shook his head.

 

“His name isn’t important, really. I just associate him with the letter ‘G’.”

 

“Alright, so. This thing. What is it going to be?”

 

“A crime scene. Could be dangerous.”

 

“But that magic thing, is that just for wizards? Or...you want to teach me?” John suggested.

 

“Call it….an apprenticeship. Come along now.” Holmes ordered, already making his way out. John noticed a gun on the table nearby and picked it up.

 

“Can I borrow this just in case?” He showed it to him.

 

Sherlock gave a curt nod. “It’s all yours. After all, you’re a soldier...” They continued down the stairs.

 

“Nope, not anymore. Actually, I think...I’m the sorcerer’s apprentice.”

 

Sherlock pulled up his collar and hid his smile as he hailed a passing cab.

 

* * *

 

 

John felt pressured to wear a blue biohazard suit after getting a death glare from one of the investigators named Sally.

 

“So do they usually call you freak around here?” he asked as they went inside. Sherlock simply looked indifferent to it.

 

“Usually I get worse names.”

 

Before John could think of any, they got to the scene. A small room at the top of an old building was where a lady in pink lay dead. It was a bit disorienting for John, but it wasn’t as bad as he expected. He stepped aside and watched as Sherlock went over to her body.

 

A word was half scratched into the wooden floor beside her hand.

 

_RACHE_

 

A bearded investigator peeked in the doorway, looking smug as he said, “‘Rache’, it’s actually German for ‘revenge’.”

 

“She wasn’t _that_ clever, Anderson.” Sherlock bitterly replied, inspecting her pale hand. Her painted nails were chipped from scratching the message.

 

“It’s a name...Rachel.”

 

Anderson scoffed. “Why would she write a name?”

 

“It isn’t just any name, it’s someone she cares about…She’s trying to lead us.” Sherlock turned to John. “In your last moments before you’re killed, what would you say?”

 

John hesitated. He thought of what he said in his mind before he died.

 

_“Thank you so much...”_

 

“Please God, let me live?” John replied instead. He felt like an idiot, but it sounded normal.

 

Anderson groaned a bit and Greg looked away before speaking up.

 

“Is this man...your assistant?”

 

Sherlock nodded with sincerity. “He’s an army doctor. John, come here and help me.”

 

He crouched next to him and checked the woman’s neck, then her wrist. John’s eyes widened when he saw that instead of cold blue veins, they were black as night. There also was an odd dark substance that leaked from her lips. Sherlock noticed his shock and noted it as well to himself.

 

“Well, Dr. Watson, what do you make of the cause of death?” He asked calmly.

 

“If we’re assuming she may be the 4th victim, then she was also poisoned as well. There’s a cold sweat on her neck that’s usually present during a seizure, and...her throat is stiff. She choked to death.” John concluded. He seemed to tense up, wondering if it was too far of a stretch.

 

Greg hummed in agreement. “That does seem viable. All the victims so far died very similarly. We’ll have to do a formal post-mortem, but I think John is onto something. Sherlock, anything else?”

 

The detective was lost in thought, looking at the damp spots on her coat and the mud in her heels. Despite that, her pocket umbrella was dry. John stood up and stepped back, feeling somewhat accomplished. Sherlock finally got up as well and fired off his conclusion.

 

“Married, but she has affairs often, since her ring is often removed, as shown by the worn outside but clean inside. Judging by the alarming shade of pink, she had a job in journalism. She came from a very rainy area, windy too. Too windy for her umbrella. The mud on her shoes is usually only found in less populated areas. Now. If a journalist came to the London from the country for a trip that was longer than a day, what would she bring?”

 

“A...A suitcase I would imagine. Also, _that_ was brilliant.” John piped in. Sherlock looked back with unseen wonder.

 

“You really think so?”

 

“Yes, it was, that was amazing…” he praised. Greg stepped in, still perplexed.

 

“But we never found a suitcase on her. If she had one, it was taken.”

 

“Wait, what? Then that means….oh….oh!” Sherlock clapped his hands together in realization. John then found himself yanked by the arm and lead downstairs by an excited detective. The inspector looked down the circling staircase at them.

 

“What are we looking for exactly?!” Greg shouted.

 

Sherlock stopped at the bottom of the stairs, still holding on to John and grinning. The doctor could have sworn he felt his forearm get yanked off slowly under his coat.

 

**_“PINK!”_ ** Holmes yelled back. And the game was on.

 

* * *

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *cue the theme song*


End file.
